


somebody to love

by cirque_de_reves (orphan_account)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Destiel - Freeform, Destiel Fluff, Destiel Oneshot, Destiel listening to really good music, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-22 22:55:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10706865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/cirque_de_reves
Summary: Cas pops in on Dean listening to music and chilling out, and wants to try out the tunes for himself. they share a pair of headphones (awwwwh) This leads to some c u t e  s h i t.





	somebody to love

**Author's Note:**

> musically based prompt #1 :)

 

 

 

Dean extends his neck so that the ribbed part of his throat drapes over the head of the sofa and half his head and his shaggy un-gelled hair hangs over the back and crosses his ankles on the overstuffed leather recliner in front of him. It’s patchy, and so is the motel, but it’s going to have to be home for a few days, so Dean takes it easy and adjusts the tiny boomboxes in his ears.

He can kind of feel the music in his throat, not like he’s singing but like the melody is sinking down his gullet and filling him up like he’s a bucket, which is only fitting because lately he’s been so damn _empty_.

_When the truth is found_

_To be lies, and all the joy_

_Within you, dies…don’t you want somebody to love, don’t you need somebody to love, wouldn’t you love somebody to love…you better find somebody to love…_

He sits still in it, lets the lyrics set him at completely sedentary equilibrium, like a stale chemical reaction. His eyes are closed because – because why would they be open – and he and the chorus are isolated on the couch-island, and it’s like pre-starship Jefferson Airplane is wielding a white-hot nine-iron and branding the chord progression into his flesh, in some cathartic way he knows is fucked up but he loves. He loves feeling like Darby Slick wrote the song with him in mind, or at least that he and Darby Slick would have something to bond over, should Dean ever meet him or rescue him from a ghoul or something.

(And it’s shitty to hope that monsters will bring them together, but hell, his only friends are people he’s met through monsters.)

The chorus unfolds again, the steady warble of poetic necessities blessing his eardrums again, and he’s about to grab around for his phone and up the volume when the ridiculously familiar sensation of being watched hits him like a train.

He opens his eyes ridiculously fast, to counteract it, and it’s just Cas, which is kind of even more pissy, because, whatever, Dean was having a moment.

He shrugs off the headphones before pausing the music, but when he does he does it slowly so he can pretend he’s finally mastered _not_ being startled by these theatrical entrances. But you can’t lie to a celestial being, and Cas’s painful stoicism suggest that he doesn’t give a flying crap anyway.

Dean wonders how it’s possible to be so blatantly impartial, but he doesn’t wonder it loud enough for Cas to steal the conjecture from him in the way that he does.

He clears his throat.

“Hello, Dean.” The angel looks like he stuck a fork into a socket, the way his black hair shoots up inches above his head, and his trenchcoat looks even dirtier than usual.

“What war you been fightin’ Cas?” Dean reluctantly shifts so he’s not sprawled like a ragdoll across the couch and all, and sits up. His neck hurts, but he’s had worse. He looks Cas up and down, and he doesn’t detect any bruises or holes or significant injuries, but he does notice: Cas is taller from here, by a lot. From here, Dean’s head centers right under his ribs, and he’s only half a foot away, too. He scoots back as subtly as he can, and rubs at his eyelashes violently.

“Not a war,” Cas says. “Just a young woman at the pet store – she asked me if it hurt when I fell from Heaven, and she had this large canine, and it was shaking its tail so menacingly – frankly it was quite frightening, if not generally rude. ‘Fallen’ and its likeness is a terminology I would prefer not to acknowledge. I had to leave, which is unfortunate, because the guinea pigs were clearly enjoying my attention.”

Dean snorts.

“God, you’re such a nerd. Nerd-angel.” He yawns and starts to get up, but Cas surprises him by flopping onto the couch with a laziness Dean embraces wholeheartedly. No one else in the _world_ deserves laziness more than the two of them, although he supposes Cas’s reasons for being lazy today in particular are more than a little iffy. Dean lets it slide, because it’s hilarious.

“In films caricaturing the high-school experience, nerds are always bullied profusely, or carrying textbooks and wearing glasses far too big for their faces, and I’m sorry, Dean, but I don’t see how that applies to me-”

Dean shrugs. “Sure it does, Cas. But, Jesus, you with glasses,” he pauses for a moment, having accidentally thought the word _yum_ – “You with glasses…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. In his own defense, it already has a subject and a predicate and God be _damned_ if he’s gonna let himself keep railing on that tangent.

And he resumes his positioning, ready to plug back in. He’s not sure why the angel’s here, but he hasn’t been presented with any opportunities to infer that it’s necessarily _important_.

“What is that, Dean?” Cas asks, and eyes opening wide again, the Winchester follows Cas’s line of sight until it’s clear his curiosity is directed at the sleek white buds nestled in his ears. He pulls them out, one by one, and holds them up to show them off.

“They’re…tiny boomboxes, for my ears,” He explains. “I can play music through them, or listen to podcasts or movies, if I want to.”

“Oh,” Cas plucks them from Dean’s fingertips and raises his eyebrows, pooling the wires in his palm delicately. “Can I try?” His face looks so pure right now, just unadulterated hopefulness, like a little kid’s.

Dean smiles. “Yeah, buddy, of course, here-” He grabs one of the buds and shoves it back in his own head, in the ear nearest to Cas, and tentatively does the same to Cas himself, flicking his hair out of the way to push the silicon gently into his ear. At first Cas winces like he’s afraid Dean’ll slap him or something, but when Dean withdraws his hand the concerned wrinkles disappear and his expression is smooth and expectant. Dean stares at him for a second, because he’s not sure what that was; does Cas not know that Dean would never deliberately hurt him-?

Oh well. He digs through the in-betweens of the couch cushions until he’s got his phone, and presses play.

_Your eyes, I say, your eyes may look like his_

_Yeah, but in your head, baby, I’m afraid you don’t know where it is_

_Oh, don’t you want somebody to love, don’t you need somebody to love, wouldn’t you love somebody to love…you’d better find somebody to love_

Cas folds his knees up to his chest and leans his head on Dean’s shoulder, and Dean can feel him shudder. For a moment, he just stares inquisitively at the crazy black hair, but then he feels the angel’s muscles relax and he leans his head back so they make a little anatomical sandwich, of sorts: Cas’s head in the crook of Dean’s neck and Dean’s cheek on top of his mess of hair.

_Tears are running_

_They're all running down your breast_

_And your friends, baby_

_They treat you like a guest_

_Don’t you want somebody to love, don’t you need somebody to love, wouldn’t you love somebody to love…you’d better find somebody to love..._

Dean kisses the top of Cas’s head and without really thinking, thinks _Fuck it, I already have._

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> yeah, it's pretty late where I live (why do I only write late at night) forgive the absence of actual talent in this work. lmao castiel and those guinea pigs tho


End file.
